


Hiding in Plain Sight

by Gabriel_Sage



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alley Sex, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dirty Talk, Earth-3, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hate Crimes, Hate Sex, Homophobic Language, Humiliation, Masochism, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sadism, Semi-Public Sex, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 20:28:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17732114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabriel_Sage/pseuds/Gabriel_Sage
Summary: Jokester was trying to uncover information on one of the more troublesome mobs in Gotham, dressing up as a prostitute to blend in with the seedy area. Unfortunately, Owlman knewpreciselywhat he looked like without the makeup on, and just happened to be passing by.





	Hiding in Plain Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Allow me to say right here and now that the hate speech is not meant to insult anyone in the LGBTQIA+ community in the real world, as I myself hold a spot there, as does at least one of my siblings. And more than one friend. It is there solely as a plot device and to add a hint of realism. Because unfortunately, hate crimes do happen, where a gay person is raped in an attempt to ‘fix’ him.  
> If this will trigger you into a roaring mess of rage, then perhaps you should move on.

It was a crisp, clear night, the sort that simply made his heart leap and his mind soar. The city’s very breath coasted him along on his gilded wings, silently slicing over the buildings. A cool breeze wafting in from the ocean played over his face and through the tiny gaps in his armor, leaving him operating at an optimal temperature. And there was no sign of that infernal clown, which only added to the sense of well-being.

Things in Gotham were working exactly as they were meant to, cogs on a well-oiled machine he’d spent years designing, building, upgrading, leaving no minuscule detail unpondered. The governing bodies were terrified stiff, the cops all in his pocket, prison security was as inadequate as ever in direct contrast to the Asylum's, and the two newest gang leaders had sworn allegiance to him just earlier that night.

Streaking over a lonely path in the Narrows, he glanced down at the desolate streets, looked back up, then had a double take as details organized themselves and pointed out something that wasn’t so innocuous after all. He circled down and landed on the nearest rooftop just as silently, staring down at the unmistakable figure. But what the hell was he _wearing?_   He leaned further over the edge of the building to take a closer look at the figure. His eyes were _not,_ as he’d thought, deceiving him; it was precisely what he'd thought he'd seen. Jokester sans makeup, clad in a skimpy outfit and standing in the shadowy street corner directly below him. The clown hadn’t spotted him yet, and despite the lack of his usual regalia, he was all for leaping down and beating his nemesis bloody, possibly even to death. But even as he prepared to swoop down and carry off his prey, a group of five somewhat inebriated men loudly exited a bar across the street, and the clown slowly shuffled further back into the shadows. One of the men noticed him anyway as they walked up the street, and pointed him out, and the entire group veered towards him, jaywalking across the empty road. Owlman smirked and settled down to watch the show.

"Ooh, what have we here?" One of them jeered at the clown.

"Looks like we’ve landed ourselves a _fairy!"_

"I-I’m not-" Jokester stammered, backing away. Either he was a fiendishly good actor or he was legitimately terrified. Given he’d faced down Ultraman in bloodlust with little more than a laugh and a hammer, the latter was doubtful.

"If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be advertising yourself," a third man mocked, shoving him. Jokester stumbled backwards, freezing up as his back pressed against brick, leaving him nowhere to go as they boxed him in.

"Face it, freak," a fourth sneered, cracking his knuckles. "You’re just a lonely homo slut who can’t get enough attention elsewhere."

"I’m not!" Jokester denied, then wheezed as the second man punched him in the stomach.

"You _are_ ," the fifth finally sneered, evidently the ringleader of the motley group by the way the others paused in deference to him. He had a great gaudy ring on his thumb. "Looks like we’re going to have to beat you until you admit it!"

Owlman looked on with fascination as they proceeded to work the paintless clown over, knocking him to the ground only to force him back up and start all over, getting a few kicks in along the way. He didn’t understand why the clown refused to fight back, but supposed it had something to do with why he was dressing like a prostitute in the first place. Not a wise move in Gotham, where the few out at night were far crueler than the violent majority, and always looking for an excuse to express it. If only he didn’t have that _ridiculous_ no-killing rule, he’d probably have been out of this situation before it had started escalating.

And finally, Jokester gave into what they wanted.

"S-stop!" He pleaded, and the gang paused.

"Well? Spit it out!"

"I-I’m gay," he whimpered.

"And?" The third hedged.

"I’m a slut," the clown whispered, staring at the ground. Definitely acting then. That clown had never honestly begged a day in his life and was most likely hiding the lack of terror in his expression. "I just want the attention, I don’t need the money at all." The ringleader clapped, smirking.

"Well guys, let’s hand it to him for finally seeing past the denial. I say he deserves a little _reward_ , don’t you?" There was a shout of assent from the rest of them, and Jokester stiffened. On universal consensus that bespoke of this being a regular _thing_ , two of the men jumped forward and took a strong grip of his arms before he could leap up and flee, pressing down on his shoulders and forcing him to remain kneeling. The other two held down his feet. The ringleader stepped forward, gripping his jaw and forcing him to look up at him with one hand, his other one fumbling with his belt.

"There’s still the matter of you being gay. Gay freaks like you are _diseased_ _!_ It’s something that's got to be cured, and sadly it doesn't work through normal means. It’ll have to fall to us to _fuck_ it out of you.”

Well, Owlman had seen enough. As fascinating as it was to see Jokester out of his element and actually playing the helpless victim for once, it was evident it wasn’t going to be much more interesting than this. So he leapt down, slicing the throat of the ringleader and ripping away the one holding the clown’s left arm, his bowels droping to the ground with a small slap.

"I-I-it’s the _owl!"_ The third man screamed hysterically, and the last survivors tried to make a run for it. Owlman struck down one before he could even fully turn around. The other two followed in quick succession. He paused. They were all dead, so he rolled his shoulders, letting his arms relax.

And finally, he turned his attention back on the clown. He hadn’t moved an inch, still on his knees before him, very carefully not looking at him. His entire form was rigid. Curiouser and curiouser. The clown _knew_ he knew what he looked like without the paint, so why stick around? _He probably felt he owed him and was waiting for the other shoe to drop_ , he realized. Ensnaring the righteous in their own morals was so much _fun_. He smirked, and let it drop he did. In one swift movement, he finally pounced like he’d been waiting to do for the past half hour, gripping his throat tightly enough for him to gag and shoving him up against the wall. The clown’s breath hitched, violet seeking out amber.

"Imagine seeing you here, like this," Owlman leered. "Is _this_ how you pay for all your little toys?" Jokester's face was so much more expressive without the whiteface caked on it. He opened his mouth, closed it, licked his lips, then finally proceeded to speak.  
"Not _quite_ ,"he responded with a distinct rasp from having his windpipe pressed on. "But of course you'd think that, because you don't know the meaning of the word  _reconnaissance._ " Owlman reacted, his grip travelling and tightening around the back of his neck to enable him to spin him around. The clown released a hiss as he was slammed face-first into the wall. He pressed himself along Jokester's back to keep him immobile, and quickly seized his wrists. He pinned them above his head with one hand, and leaned forward, breathing against his neck.  
"I _like_ you like this," Owlman rumbled into his ear. Jokester's face was twisted in discomfort and some pain; His head was twisted sideways at an uncomfortable angle.  
"Well, I’m not doing it for _your_ benefit," he spat over his shoulder, before shuddering. Owlman’s free hand slid further up his side, tracing the outline of his thin figure.

"And how many people did you end up having to do tonight, just for the sake of that cover?" Jokester grimaced.

"Three." Owlman chuckled.

"And there you go. You would have fared better dressing up as a homeless street rat. Whatever you were trying to find," he growled into his ear, "you aren’t going to manage it looking like _that_. You don’t look nearly as horrible when you’re dressing like the whore you are, and certainly too nice to keep under the radar. In fact, you’re so pretty even the _homophobes_ wanted to fuck you." He proceeded to lick a stripe across his neck. It was a delicious mix of blood and sweat, and the disgusted look on the clown’s face made it more than worth it. Jokester swallowed, then hissed his response.

"Didn’t have much _choice_. You don’t say no to Tricks in Gotham." Owlman lowered his arm back down from where he’d been caressing between his shoulders, and slipped his hand between the bricking and the clown’s abdomen, searching for something. And he evidently found it when the clown let out a yelp, his eyes growing in shock as he fondled Jokester’s as of yet uninterested cock through his leather pants.

"How about a deal? You be good for me, and I just might pay you," Owlman hummed. Jokester scoffed.

"I don’t _want_ your money," he snarled, steadfastly ignoring the way he was slowly starting to go erect under his ministrations. Owlman leered into his face.

"Who said anything about _money?_  You fulfill your role as the prostitute you’re masquerading as, and I’ll give you the information you came here looking for."

"And say I refuse," Jokester growled. Owlman smirked cruelly.

"I’ll drug you, then find another group of men like the ones I just killed and watch while _they_   fuck you instead. Don’t think I won’t," he smirked. "I’ve started carrying elephant tranqs with me, _just for you."_   He paused to let Jokester consider it, and was thrilled by the expressions flickering across his face. Anger, annoyance, followed by disgust and resignation. It had been a long time since he’d managed to corner him into giving in, and as it’d be a long time coming before he did again. So he’d have to savor it.

"Fine," Jokester snapped a moment later. "But you’d _better_ give me something worth it."

"What were you trying to find?" Owlman questioned, immediately shifting his hands to do something more useful.

"Intel on Don Gordon’s operations," Jokester replied, doing his best to suppress his shuddering as Owlman started untying his leather pants.

"And _that_ I can do," Owlman purred into his ear. This time, the clown _didn’t_ succeed in restraining his shivering, and Owlman had to suppress a shudder of his own, albeit borne from delight rather than disgust or shame. Undoing the laces fastening his pants took several moments too long for his rapidly dwindling patience, and with a growl of frustration, he simply just ripped them open. Jokester gave a weak laugh.

" _Someone’s_ eager." Owlman cuffed him in the head.

"Shut it." He reached down and ripped off his codpiece, then yanked the clown’s trousers down just enough to gain access to what he wanted. And naturally, the clown seemed to regain his senses at that point, freezing up, even starting to panic. Obviously, the surrealism had finally worn off; it had finally struck him that he’d made a deal with the devil. Owlman smirked, and made his move, pulling the clown flush against him.

Jokester flung his head back against Owlman’s shoulder and _screamed_ when he forewent any sort of preparation and just thrusted straight in, and he probably would have woken the entire street if Owlman hadn’t slapped his hand over his mouth just in time. Evidently, no one had fucked the clown tonight, or apparently any other night recently. He waited several seconds before continuing on, not out of any sort of consideration for his prey, but simply to get accustomed to the sensory input, to collect himself and regain control. Once he had, he pulled out and slammed back in. The clown hadn’t adjusted yet, but all that was able to escape him now was a muffled whine. He smirked, picking up the pace while retaining the brutality. At this rate, it didn’t take long for the way to ease up, blood doing its job to lubricate the motion. Jokester slumped in his grip slightly, and his next thrust must have changed the angle, because the clown stiffened, shuddering around him but refusing to let a sound pass his lips. Apparently he’d just hit his prostate. He proceeded to ensure he didn’t hit it again. As much as he’d _love_ to make Jokester enjoy every minute of this and wallow in shame afterward, to play a mind game on the clown the way he constantly played them on him, he didn’t. Because this wasn’t about pleasure. This wasn’t even about sex. This was about power, him taking what he wanted while the other was forced to yield it. And honestly? He had no desire to end up as one of those villains with some sort of twisted relationship with their nemesis. There was absolutely no point here in pretending they were anything other than bitter enemies, no use even entertaining the thoughts of _‘what-if’_. And in that regard, it was Jokester finally ceasing his struggles and craning his neck to stare him right in the face with pained eyes that did it for him. His orgasm crashed over him, and only through force of will did he remain standing, keeping the clown pinned in place. He noted offhandedly that the clown had actually gotten off too when he came in him, and was now on the verge of passing out. He’d known Jokester was a masochist, but not quite to the extent where he could come untouched and without a lick of actual pleasure coursing through him.

He released the clown, who fell to the ground in a heap. He tucked himself away, basking in the afterglow of a brutally enjoyable fuck the likes of which he hadn’t experienced in _years_. Perhaps he _would_ do it again sometime. He stared down at the half-conscious mess of his nemesis, which only made the feeling grow.

Well, he’d gotten what he wanted. It was only _fair_ that he paid him for services rendered. So he knelt next to his form, staring down into his half-closed eyes. Jokester moved slightly, alerted to his presence solely by his warm breath cascading down into his face, given how out of it he was.

"You’ll find Gordon’s mob operating from the abandoned police precinct in midtown," he murmured, lips inches from his face. Jokester mumbled something utterly unintelligible, and Owlman smirked, rising to his feet. If he were a more considerate person, he’d carry the half-unconscious man elsewhere out of this gore-encrusted alley, possibly even back to the clown’s hideout. But if there was one thing people had never described him as, it was considerate.

Rising on gilded wings, the night was absolutely _perfect_.

**Author's Note:**

> Tricks are what male clients of prostitutes are called. They’re also called johns, but it seems more like Jokester to call them the former.


End file.
